


Learning to fly (requires falling)

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Government Experimentation, M/M, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a freak, and he knows it. Then, he meets John...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I messed up with Sherlock's parents names tell me. I didn't get them.

It all started the day that there were no babysitters available. Or perhaps it started much before, when a young girl was reading Asimov. The woman who'd later become the institution known as Mummy Holmes loved maths, and she loved the Foundation cycle.

When years later she decided that she'd endeavour to become Hari Seldon (because the principles of psychohistory should work), she wasn't committed. She was just brilliant enough that people suspected she might succeed, so she was given a place in a government founded research centre who held many more of what ordinary people would call would call mad scientists but that the bureaucrats considered people who might just change the world.

Then came the day when Siger Holmes just _had to_ help a friend in need and hence couldn't take care of Mycroft, and they could find no babysitter. So, against all regulations – but what damage could a seven years old child do? - Mummy Holmes brought him to work with her. And there they met.

Mycroft, who decided to sneak around in search of something interesting while Mummy was completely absorbed in her numbers, found the little thing beyond a heavy glass. On the door by that window was written SL47.

It was a baby. A perfect baby, if you asked him, with eyes the most beautifully puzzling shade of blue that Mycroft had ever seen. He was tiny, and had more angles in his body that Mycroft had ever seen in a baby of that age – they were mostly screaming little balls. And he had the softest-looking, fluttery, feathery wings that ever graced a baby bird, but they seemed to fit him very much.

Not that this one wasn't wailing too, like every boy his age seemed to do. Nobody was fussing over him or running to see what the problem was, though, and that was just sad. Mycroft slipped in the room and apparently all the baby wanted was company, or maybe to be tickled, because holding him, tickling him and running reverent hands down down his feathers was all Mycroft did, and the little one was giggling in no time at all. Mycroft parted from him reluctantly, later, but it was time for his afternoon snack and Mummy might notice his absence.

That evening, at dinner, he shocked his parents saying, “You think that I'm lonely. Well, maybe I am. A little. You're thinking about trying for another child. Don't bother. SL47 would do perfectly as a little brother.”

“Mike, you shouldn't even know about him,” Mummy replied sharply.

“Well, clearly I do. Don't worry, I've not hurt him. I wouldn't,” the boy protested vehemently.

“I've not said so, Mikey. Of course I know that. But I can't just bring him home, either. He's propriety of the British government,” she tried to explain.

“Well, he didn't seem to care very much for him. He was left to cry. And who is the British government, anyway?” Mycroft asked, already plotting how to convince him. He was good at having people do what he wanted.

“It's complicated,” Mummy answered, very unsatisfactorily. And it was left at that.

Until, four years later, when he'd resigned himself to being forever alone in a world of goldfishes, Mycroft got his wish.

Despite the hollow bones and the wings SL47 refused to fly – to levitate, even – which should, according to his creators' theories, have developed together with walking. But it hadn't, and they were tired of waiting and raising someone who would, at best, be fit for a freak show.

They decided to scrap the experiment, though they didn't kill him themselves – nobody on the SL team had the stomach for that. It turned out that nobody at all was ruthless enough for that, and so , with the semi-consent of some people and keeping others carefully unaware, Violet Holmes ensured that Mycroft obtained what he wanted, a few documents were forged and SL47 became officially Sherlock Holmes.

A little boy with a huge secret (“Never, ever, _ever_ let anyone glimpse your wings, Sher; they'll take you away!”), an enthusiastic if overprotective older brother (“ _Finally_ someone to play Deductions with!”), and loving parents (“You're absolutely _perfect_ the way you are, love.” “But I can't fly!” “Well, neither can I,” Siger smiled).

And psychic classmates, going by the number of _freak_ he received despite carefully hiding his...malformation. He never objected against them because that was, you know, true.

“They don't know a thing, Sher, don't worry. They're too idiot to have noticed. They're just envious of you. But believe me, they don't matter.”

“I know that, Mycroft,” he huffed. Still, he dreamed of becoming a pirate and having mates to have adventures with. For now, Readbeard would have to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

When they grew up, things changed. Mycroft set up to become the British Government, though Mum assured him many times that it wasn't a single man, so that if Sherlock ever slipped and got discovered it would be to Mycroft himself that they'd bring the issue. And Mycroft would smile and assure that he already employed his brother for the good of the nation, so nobody needed to fret about it. Sherlock would be protected like this. Safe.

But becoming the government was hard work, and Mycroft had no time at all for his teen little brother, just vague prospects of working together in the future. Sherlock, though, didn't need a boss; he needed an older brother right then. The only reasonable deduction he can make from Mycroft's distance is that his brother only meant to exploit him; that this is why he was taught deductions, even – to be used later on. The resentment grew and festered.

Sherlock started hanging out with the worse crowd he could find in retaliation, and soon he realized something. The junkies were destined to be his best friends. He didn't need to hide his wings with them. They would chalk it out to a weird trip.

And Sherlock's wings, by then, had grown to be eagle-like, big, much less feathery and more jet black, shiny quills. They suffered being constricted inside his clothes all the time, no matter how much tailored they were. His wings wanted to stretch, and so Sherlock did, with his friends now, knowing Mycroft would have a conniption if he found out (well, he wouldn't be the only one to be honest) and loving it all the more for it.

Still, at the start it was an occasional thing. Sherlock still had hopes, no matter how half-formed. But years went past, the hate of his peers for his 'goddamned party trick' and more simply him never relented, and Sherlock grew tired. Caught between hate and despise on one side, Mycroft's pressuring and his parents' still loving, but ultimately uncomprehending attitude at home (how _could_ they understand? They weren't freaks of nature), and the utter dullness of the rest of the world, he upgraded his drugs of choice.

It was an escape, but a trap at the same time. He told himself that he wasn't addicted, that a thing as pedestrian as addiction was beneath him. He could stop anytime. He just didn't wish to, because what was there to be lucid for?

Once he reasoned that if he became normal, he wouldn't be hated anymore. Somehow, this for him translated not into finally getting social cues, but into getting rid of his wings. He nicked a scalpel and a large quantity of morphine from an hospital (he wasn't about to undergo an operation without it; he wasn't _stupid_ ), he found a empty, mostly clean room in one of his usual haunts and then...HIs memories grew hazy after that point.

He woke up later, in hospital, and feeling like absolute shit. And if that wasn't bad enough, Mycroft – who was _never_ there when Sherlock wanted him – was at his bedside. Grumbling about “what were you thinking?” and “how much stupid can you get?” and “you overdosed, Sherlock. You'd be dead if I didn't save you.”

“Well, don't save me next time,” Sherlock replied bitingly. Or tried to. In reality he mumbled something indistinct, but he was still bone tired.

That episode resulted in a scar on his left shoulder, that nobody would ever see, and Mycroft thinking he could still do whatever he pleased with Sherlock's life attempting to check him in rehab. Multiple times. Sherlock only developed a talent for escapism that would be very useful if he ever found himself in a tight spot.

Why couldn't the git see that Sherlock had nothing to get clean for? Yes, his parents loved him. It wasn't enough to build a life on, and that's what he was supposed to be doing at his age. Find his way. Know what to do with himself.

He found the solution to that problem while searching for more drugs. He stumbled on a crime scene near one of his haunts and solved it for the idiots buzzing around, if only to obtain that they'd leave the premises so his usual dealer could come back. Naturally, he got arrested, because they didn't believe him when he said that he _wasn't_ a witness, and insisted that if so he must have been involved in the crime then. A good deed never went unpunished.

Luckily Lestrade gave him a chance to prove the authenticity of his deductive powers. He presented Sherlock with a number of past, solved crime scene photos and Sherlock guessed (sorry; deduced) correctly each time.

When Lestrade tried to release him (and ordered to arrest the man this lanky genius told them was guilty), Sherlock realized that he hadn't itched for drug as long as he'd been there and half pleaded, half demanded, “Get me more cases.”

The inspector indulged him, so he solved seven cold cases before leaving the station, grinning for a verbal accord with Lestrade to let him help in more cases still, “As long as you get clean. And stay that way.” The inspector recognized addiction when he saw it, but it didn't make him dismiss Sherlock. It was strange.

The young man had just found a way to keep his brain from rotting and be useful. Stop more people from being potentially hurt by helping the police arrest murderers and...anything interesting that'd come their way. Be part of something good, for once.

It was worth a few sacrifices, surely? It was worth getting clean. It would only mean exchanging one form of stimulation for another. It was worth only giving a breather to his wings inside his home and living a life of permanent hiding, too. Just as his family had always suggested.

Sherlock called his brother. “I'm ready,” he said softly. Mycroft would understand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Incredible as it was, Sherlock found someone who enjoyed his company. While sober. And who thought his deductions were amazing, and not hateful. John Watson was a definite keeper. Sherlock wanted him by his side at all times.

Having John as a flatmate – one who cared for him, without having to – was definitely worth hiding his wings 24/7. Or at least until John went to sleep. Even if they were sore being trapped all the time some days. Sherlock really thought he could go on like this indefinitely.

Until the day he couldn't anymore. A murderer had stabbed him in the flank. “I'm okay,” he hurried to assure.

“Of course you'll be,” John had replied. He clearly meant to take care of the detective. But to get to it properly, Sherlock would have needed to undress, and then his secret would be out, and then...

Panic welled within him during all the trip back home. “Really, John, I've got this,” he tried desperately one last time, even if he was still bleeding.

“I'm a doctor, and you need one. So you let me work. Unless you fancy a trip to A&E,” John stated firmly.

No way out, then. Sherlock started stripping and tried to steel himself for what was to come. Freak, of course. Monster, probably. And then? John had a considerable talent for synonyms when it suited him. Once unveiled, his wings fluttered once in deep uneasiness, spreading involuntarily.

As always, John surprised him with his behaviour. “Sherlock...are you an angel?” he wondered reverently. The detective could only shake his head mutely.

“Right...healing first. Everything else later. I'm afraid you'll need stitches,” the doctor said, scolding himself into action. His hands were sure and caring at the same time. He didn't look spooked or disgusted. Not yet, at least. Sherlock wasn't sure how to react to that, so he didn't. At all.

When John was done, he uttered, “So...not an angel. If you're sure. I mean, I guess you'd know. I know that you're not a demon, because you'd be committing crimes then. Would it be rude of me to ask _what_ you are?”

“Nothing so fancy. Really, John, try to be rational for a moment. I'm only a failure. A botched experiment. Nothing else,” the sleuth replied, with a self-deprecating grimace.

“You don't look like a failure to _me_ ,” his friend protested.

“Oh, but I am. The homo volans is still a pipe dream, despite all the care that they'd put into engineering me,” Sherlock explained evenly.

“Maybe so, but I still don't like you talking about yourself like that,” the doctor huffed.

John was defending him. Why was he? It made no sense. Sherlock only stated facts. Still, there was no fighting him. “Fine. I won't refer to myself that way,” the sleuth agreed, with a sigh that said how stupid he found it. (And yet, this warmed his unacknowledged heart. But the thing needed to be beaten into submission.)

“Can I...” John whispered, with an aborted movement and his voice still full of wonder, “can I touch them?”

“Yes, but be gentle.” They looked strong and sturdy, but were surprisingly delicate and sensitive, how the detective had learned as a child at his own expense.

“Yes, of course.” It was the whisper of a touch, brushing against his outer quills with reverence, and Sherlock's wings unconsciously leaned into the caress. How long was it since the sleuth had his feathers playfully ruffled? Since before Mycroft and he drifted apart. Too long, it seemed, as he suddenly yearned for the touch to continue. All too soon, the doctor stopped. “Don't stop,” Sherlock almost pleaded, but caught himself in time. He didn't want John to misunderstand, and it'd come out too breathy for him not to.

“I get why you hid them, but I was thinking...at least at home, would you consider freeing them sometimes? It can't be easy having them folded all the time. Doesn't it hurt your back?” the doctor queried.

“That's not all of your reasons, John,” the sleuth countered. He could see as much. But what else could there be beyond John's compulsive caring?

“Oh fine. They're magnificent. I like them. Hiding them is a pity,” John huffed.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He had never seen his wings like that. They were a defect. A malformation. Something to hide. Something he hadn't asked for, and would have done without if he could. “Really?” he couldn't help but ask.

“Now you're fishing for compliments. Yes, really. Of course. Don't you _see_ them?” the doctor replied with a kind, teasing smile.

“Not like you,” the sleuth countered truthfully. “But I'll be happy to leave them out in the open sometimes.”

And he did. When they were alone, Sherlock loved to shed his clothes and stretch his wings all too often. John always looked at them with admiration, and it was almost as good as his praise of Sherlock's skills.

He never asked to touch them anymore, though. Pity. If sometimes Sherlock, stretching them carelessly, let his wings brush against his friend – it was an accident. Not a longing. At least, not in John's mind. And the doctor never seemed to mind that.

With time, Sherlock had stopped considering his wings like bothersome, useless appendages. John thought that they made him beautiful. Made him special. And he'd made certainly no move to have him captured and subjected to further experimentations since knowing about them. Not even after all the experiments Sherlock had run on him. Maybe John was right. He often saw what Sherlock missed. Not that the sleuth would ever admit it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Homo volans is Latin for 'flying man'. Thought it might be the next desired step after homo sapiens sapiens (which is our species, if you didn't know. Translated as 'man who knows to know').


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Obviously.

He hadn't meant to take Sebastian's case. In the B. J. (Before John) era, he wouldn't have contacted Sebastian back. He wasn't after easy money. No, all he wanted to do was go there, parade John's existence – show him off to Sebastian who surely hadn't changed and was still a a stuck up prick – and then tell him that the case was too uninteresting for him to look into it.

All his careful plans had gone down the metaphorical drain. Sebastian questioned John's presence – of course he did, like he really had secrets anyone would have bothered to know – and Sherlock answered, “My friend.” He wanted to see Sebastian's surprised expression – or his attempt to school his face, maybe.

Instead, John corrected him immediately saying, “Colleague,” and it was  _Sherlock_ who needed to carefully blank his face, lest they find out how much the careless quip hurt him. So John and he weren't friends? He'd thought they were. John wasn't disgusted by him. He took care of Sherlock. He giggled with the detective. Wasn't that what friends were meant to do? Sherlock was confused. He bottled it all up. (And yelled, “Shut up!” to the Mycroft in his head who pointed out, “Who would want to be friends with a freak of nature, Sherlock?”)

And somehow, in the midst of his confusion, the sleuth ended up promising Sebastian that he'd look into his case, which wasn't elementary as he'd expected (some embezzlement, maybe, he'd thought at the start). Who would be able to break in the bank despite the security system? And above all, who on earth would break in and limit himself to vandalizing one painting? What aim could that possibly serve?

It was a puzzle. As such, it was exactly the type of thing Sherlock enjoyed. Sebastian remembered him well from their university days. Not that it mattered if it was interesting. Sherlock still wouldn't let himself like working for his former acquaintance.

And more deeply mysterious that any riddle Sebastian could offer was no one else than John Watson himself. On the way home, he said casually, “So...someone broke in the impregnable bank. Are you sure it wasn't you? You could have easily flown and broken in by the window. And ruined things just for the heck of it. And because he was a twat and deserved it. 'We all hated him?' What the hell was that?”

His voice had started lightly teasing, but then it had suddenly become angry. Angry at Sebastian. On Sherlock's account. But not – emphatically not – Sherlock's friend. There was enough to make the detective's head spin with such contradictory behaviour. 

Only he couldn't ask. He wasn't sure that he wanted John's answer. The “I'm getting angry because I'm a decent bloke, but of course we aren't friends. I wouldn't ever stoop so low.”

So instead he replied conversationally, “It wasn't me. Sebastian isn't worth the hassle. And he was just being truthful, nothing more. Everyone hated me. I gave them no reason not to, mind.”

“Bollocks. Hating you? They had no idea what they missed on,” John countered, the sentence clearly heartfelt.

“Odd experiments in the lab, compulsive deducing and the joys of cocaine, mostly,” the sleuth answered flatly. Uni hadn't been particularly happy – or at all. Sherlock didn't expect John's reply.

“Well, two out of three sound fun,” the doctor said with a grin.

“You believe that you wouldn't have shunned me. Even back then,” Sherlock stated, taken aback.

“We get along quite well, don't we? Though I'd have objected to the drugs,” John replied. As if the idea of having his company (“Not friendship,” Mind-palace Mycroft pointed out smugly) wouldn't have changed Sherlock's life at the time. Possibly. Probably.

“That we do,” the detective agreed. What was true was true. “It's probably best that we didn't come across each other then, though. I'd persuade Mycroft to have you kicked out of the army, and you wouldn't have liked that.”

“Why would you do something like that?” John replied, baffled and a bit hurt at such a prospect.

“Let you go where I couldn't follow with the chance that you got yourself killed on some godforsaken land? I wouldn't stand for it,” Sherlock explained simply.

“But you could have followed, you know,” the doctor pointed out with a smile.

“Me. In the army. Keeping my wings a secret from the multitude, and taking orders by some dimwitted sod. It'd go so smooth.” Sherlock grimaced in distaste. But when John laughed, he joined in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Sherlock's world crashed all around him. He couldn't breath, or reason, or do anything but hurt. And pray that it was all an horrible nightmare and soon he'd wake up and find John kindly offering his perfect tea so they could laugh together about how twisted Sherlock's unconscious could be, of course. But at the moment the cabbie's words, “Your fan,” had short-circuited with John's, “Amazing,” and “Brilliant,” and his flatmate's presence at the pool had left him in an uncomprehending agony.

Had John really toyed with him from the start? Pulled the wool over his eyes? Laughed secretly at his expense? Was his name even John Watson to begin with? Or Moriarty? Or something else entirely?

He'd trusted John with his deepest secrets. The sleuth had revelled in the other man's easy acceptance of him (and wasn't this the the biggest hint that something was wrong with the unassuming army doctor?).

Overtaken by shock (he might welcome a blanket, right now) he'd forgotten everything. That a pip was still missing. The borrowed voices. The rules of their game.

When John was revealed as a victim, Sherlock's relief was so strong he almost swooned with it, adrenaline at the bomb's presence the only thing keeping him upright.

They could die any second – and that was fine. As long as he got to take down the goddamn criminal puppeeter with them. Two less monsters in the world. And John – brave John, kind John – as collateral damage of these two opposite forces of nature colliding. The doctor should have really known better when picking the company he kept.

Then again, John's behaviour rarely made any sense from a logical standpoint. Like when he tried to sacrifice his life for Sherlock's. It was evident that John was better than him, way more worthy than the detective. So why would he do so? It wasn't possible that John didn't realize his superiority in everything but cleverness. It shouldn't be possible for him to care about Sherlock that much, too, only this happened.

And by the end of it all, somehow, everyone was still alive. Sherlock, John, Moriarty (sadly). The bomb lay forgotten. The criminal consultant was gone (really, definitely) and the snipers would have followed him.

Sherlock gave into what he was literally itching to do since the start. He got rid of his clothes, and let his wings curl up against John in a protective, feathery embrace.

John was for a moment too startled to properly react, then he mumbled hesitantly, “Sher...lock?”

“Not good?” the sleuth queried, resignation in his voice...but still not moving his wings away.

“No, it's good...fine, all fine. Just – it tickles, a bit. Your feathers...are they trembling? Are _you_ okay?” the doctor replied, all kind concern, a small frown of worry on his features.

“I'm all right. Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be? I'll settle in a moment. My feathers, I mean. Sorry about the tickling. I don't think they were meant to do this,” Sherlock rambled. Whether he meant his quills weren't meant to vibrate with stress or to be used to hug was anyone's guess.

“Don't apologize,” John said, a tad huskily. This wasn't bad at all. It felt a bit strange, to be hugged without exactly being touched, Sherlock's arms still lax at his sides, but definitely pleasant. Something to repeat. Maybe without the whole being almost blown to smithereens first part.

After a few short-but-felt-eternal moments, Sherlock finally folded his wings and redressed. He fought down the urge to apologize anew for his behaviour – John had said not to, after all – and they went back home.

“Thank God you waited a bit for your impromptu strip tease at the pool,” John remarked, bringing him a cup of tea. “I don't want to imagine what Moriarty would have done with the knowledge of your wings.”

“He'd probably have decided that the proper place for me was a cage. In his living room. Then again, barring the living room bit, that's what most people would think should they know,” Sherlock replied offhandedly.

“That'd still be good. I'd storm in and break you free,” John countered confidently. “I was more worried that he'd kill you after all and pin you to a wall.”

“Pin me? I'm not a butterfly, you know,” the sleuth bit back, grimacing at the idea of being half insect.

“ 'Course not. You're an angel,” John quipped, fondness warm in his voice.

“You really should abandon such silly misconceptions, John.” Still, Sherlock blushed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer : I own nothing.

__

Irene flirted with him. Shamelessly, he'd add, if it wasn't obvious already – people in her line of work weren't known for their modesty. Sherlock didn't react in any way. After all, she didn't know his secret (as it should be) so, no matter how insistent her offers were – and from someone who greeted him stark naked, the euphemism dinner for sex was laughable – the sleuth didn't react to them. She wasn't serious. She couldn't be.

If she'd seen _him_ naked...John actually liking his wings was without a doubt a fluke – a very lucky fluke, indeed. With what she was used to in her work, Irene maybe wouldn't have called him a monster outright. After all, she must have had contact with people she didn't find particularly arousing, without letting them know. But she would be disgusted nonetheless.

And anyway, even if she claimed that she * wasn't * going to blackmail anyone, adding his own secret to her stash of blackmail material would have been so utterly insensate that Sherlock wouldn't have done that even stoned out of his mind.

Which he has been. By her. He didn't appreciate that one whit. The last thing he needed was having enough of a taste to go back to wanting drugs. He already wanted so many things he couldn't have. Thank God that he's really been fine as she claimed once his transport got rid of it. He'd have killed Irene if she got him addicted again. (John would have left him, disappointed in him. That's what he's done to his own sister, after all.)

Not to mention Irene scared him. He wasn't used to being unable to read people, and he didn't like it one bit. How was he supposed to behave without having an inkling about the other person? How did normal people manage to blunder through their life that way?

God knows Sherlock has been called reckless a lot during his life, but ordinary people are much more reckless he's ever been. They have relationships with people they can't see through... And then they go to him or another private detective to know if they've been lied to. Which they usually have been.

For a moment, upon seeing Irene for the first time, Sherlock had been absolutely terrified of having lost his gift – his deductive powers. His life would have crumbled if he had. Then John appeared, his many times over saviour, Sherlock deduced him and the panic receded. It wasn't him. It was the Woman (not that it was much better, having a blind spot like that). She was a puzzle he couldn't solve. A problem which took a liking to teasing him.

And John thought he liked her. He didn't trust her – he could have never trusted her – but this didn't seem to matter in John's book.

The only thing that seemed to matter to him was whether Sherlock wanted to make babies with her.  (Which he wouldn't because a. she wasn't the motherly type and would probably rather get an abortion and go back to the life she enjoyed, and b. women _really_ weren't his area, they were John's, but he didn't seem to see the difference between them.)

Or whether Sherlock was falling in love with her. Again, could love really exist without trust? Sherlock didn't think so. If he'd have to fall in love – which he wouldn't, not ever, he knew better than fall prey of chemical defects – it would be with someone with whom he felt comfortable sharing his wings.

And that sorely limited his options, did it not? There was only one person Sherlock could have imagined falling for, if he'd ever fallen prey to such an ordinary people's ailment, in truth. And that person was very vocal – repeatedly – about not being interested in him. But since Sherlock would never be stupid enough to misinterpret a chemical imbalance as anything related to sentiment, things were fine. They were more than fine. Just perfect.

Now, if John – for all his lack of interest in Sherlock – would have stopped behaving in ways he'd call jealous in anyone else (but that couldn't be, because John very clearly _didn't_ want him; “Who would?” inner Mycroft gleefully chimed in) the detective wouldn't be so confused all the time.

John was a puzzle. A fascinating, never ending walking contradiction. And if not jealous, then _what_? Concerned? God no, that made him sound like Mycroft. Wishing he'd been the one to catch Irene's interest? Maybe that. Yeah, definitely that. It would explain why John was so irritated by Irene flirting with _him_.

Maybe he was still hoping to sway her affections towards himself, and that was why he was wondering how deeply involved Sherlock was. He wasn't the type to purposefully steal a girl and wound an acquaintance's feelings in the process.

Perhaps Sherlock should pretend to be a bit more affected than he was to play upon John's loyalty and keep him from pursuing the Woman. He didn't want John to date Irene. She wasn't _safe_ (which made her just about perfect for the doctor – a bit _too much_ perfect). No. Irene and John would never be a couple. Not if Sherlock had any say in it (and with John's love life, he usually ultimately _did._ )     


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The Baskerville's case terrified Sherlock. He shouldn't have taken it, really. He had no intention to. But it was the first interesting matter he'd come across in a month. (Was he really expected to care for lost  _pets_ , however glowing? He shuddered at the thought of ever stooping so low.) So to Dartmoor it was.

He supposed he should have felt at home inside the Baskerville base – it wasn't that different from the place where he'd spent his first years. But he'd mostly deleted that time, and now the only thing remaining was the utter disquiet at the thought of these scientists figuring out what he was, no matter how perfectly tailored his clothes were.

Maybe they'd decide that he was worth running a few more experiments on, after all. The heavy doors would close for good behind him and leave him at the mercy of these people. He'd lose his name, get assigned another number,  and have absolutely no say on the experiments being run on him.

He shielded himself with Mycroft's ID – nobody would have dared touch Mycroft Holmes – but it wasn't enough to put him at ease. Nor did it seem enough to smooth the situation, for the first time in Sherlock's experience.

Then John pulled rank and ordered that pesky soldier about. Sherlock had never seen John act like that. John apologized. John cajoled. John comforted. John, as far as Sherlock knew him, _didn't_ order you about implying, “and be quick about it...or _else._ ” (Else _what_?)

Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, expected complacence because it was due to him (that was how it worked in the army right) and would hear no excuses. Captain Watson was utterly hot ( _wait, no, file that away for later...we're investigating here, don't get distracted_ ) and John had loved giving orders ( _inconsequential, he's not gay for God's sake, Sherlock get your act together_ ).

The detective's feelings were a jumbled mess, and if only he could have dismissed them altogether he'd have been a happy man. Being drugged on top of it didn't help his mood any. He was sure of it because, though similar to what Henry had described, the hound looked too much like something out of the horror movie John had inflicted on him last Halloween not to be the product of his mind . And he really should start deleting more John-related things before he cluttered his mind inescapably.

In an attempt to forget about his fears, Sherlock was harsh with John too. And apparently his flatmate got offended. Which the sleuth shouldn't have cared about, but he did. The point was – though not in so many words, John's attitude clearly showed that he thought he was Sherlock's friend now.         

Well, how was the detective supposed to know John had changed his mind since the Blind Banker case? He wasn't a mind reader, no matter how the doctor made him look on his blog ( _and now he mentally used John's names for the cases too...the thing had ruined him_ ). And honestly, he didn't examine the matter in depth since then. He'd only find all the perfectly sound reasons for John's refusal to be his friend, and no matter how logical they were, they still stung.

So he'd discovered that he did have a friend when he'd been careless enough to upset and, in all probability, lose him. Whatever John would have thought of that day in the future ( Sherlock * did * need someone normal to test his theory on – how could he assume he had ordinary response to the drug, with his genes all scrambled like that) not everything coming out of his mouth that day was a careful ploy.

He was quite desperate to get   back in John's good graces, and if to make him happy he copied John's own technique, with its random superlatives, it was only because he knew firsthand how it warmed people's hearts even when they didn't mean to succumb to it. Even with his less than satisfactory (for some mysterious reason) delivery, the praise worked its magic.

Pity that using it in such a spot of trouble had a side effect Sherlock hadn't foreseen that was totally undesirable.  No matter how honest he was, that or any other time ( John * was * amazing, if only because he hadn't forsaken the sleuth yet), the doctor grew inexorably wary of Sherlock's commendation. He couldn't offer an honest compliment without John being immediately suspicious of what the detective had done or was going to do.  Lucky him that with Mycroft he'd had a long training of wrapping praise in insults. Hopefully John would understand the brothers' code.         


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Obviously.

Sherlock's conviction had been wrong. There  _was_ a God, and He got utterly miffed seeing Sherlock's enthusiasm towards the consultant criminal's games, temporary as it had been. (No one was allowed to use John.  _No one_ .) It was the only explanation for Moriarty being unstoppable. Sherlock had tried,  _Mycroft_ had tried, and still Sherlock had played right into his nemesis' hands. If this wasn't his punishment, he didn't know what it was.

There were still plans, sure, failsafes, and Moriarty wouldn't get Sherlock's life (presumably; no plan could be 100% safe). But he had no choice. He had to fall, or John would die. (Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too.) Entirely unacceptable. No call off codes, thanks to Jim's deranged actions.

Just “Falling is like flying.” How much had Mycroft told Moriarty, exactly? A fleeting “And I've never done either – what if I mess up?” inside his head, but Sherlock would have to learn. For John.

Mycroft would be here somewhere, supervising that the plan went through without a hitch, and it shouldn't have been comforting but it was.

He only had to take a step and let himself fall. Easy...not. Especially not with John pleading with him to stop it. “Stop it, Sherlock. You aren't a bloody bird.” Didn't he know that? Really, John. Always stating the obvious. Why did Sherlock find that endearing when it was him – and him only?

When he'd been planning, Sherlock had supposed that the hardest part of it all would have been controlling his wings mid fall. And it _was_ hard – so very hard. His wings yearned to spread – to catch the rush of air coming to meet him. Maybe not to fly, but surely to try.

He couldn't have that. For one, if he used his natural parachute, John would have hoped that it broke his fall enough for him to be able to survive. Giving him hope was the last thing Sherlock wanted, now.

Two, if the gun trained on John saw him fly – or try to – he'd shoot. Moriarty's fairytale didn't end with Sherlock gently gliding down after having vanquished his enemy. It ended with Sherlock's broken skull on the pavement and his brilliant brain in a puddle. They wouldn't give him exactly that – hopefully – but it needed to be convincing enough for the gunman to walk away satisfied... right into Mycroft's men's hands.

The knowledge that a puzzled killer would have shot – shot _John –_ was enough to keep Sherlock's wings folded, rigid with fear, no matter how instinctively tempting spreading them looked right now. He had to trust Mycroft to save him. And if not, John at least would have been safe – and that was enough.

Once he had safely landed, he expected things to run smoothly. He'd never thought that far, far more difficult would be deceiving John. Not because he was a doctor, and sloppy work wouldn't be enough. Because of the sheer agony in John's pleading voice.

Sherlock knew that there was a bond -one that he was going to break. He knew that John would grieve. Hell, he counted on it for his cover. He just didn't think that John would be hurt that much. After all, he was losing only his impossible, freakish, often times annoying flatmate.

(And friend, yes, Sherlock could claim John as his friend – even if he didn't deserve it. The sleuth had never been entirely sure, Baskerville gave him a huge clue but not a flat-out declaration, but John had said as much now, hadn't he?)

John would be sad for a bit, which would help persuade anyone in Moriarty's web who still had doubts, and then he would realize that life without Sherlock was definitely better. No biohazards. No cockblocking (even if it wasn't Sherlock's fault, John always accused him of ruining his relationships).

Sherlock could just hope that his friend wouldn't like his new life so much that he refused any contact with him afterwards. At the very least John, incurable adrenaline addict that he was, should always like to come along on cases if they were dangerous enough. That's what Sherlock had reassured himself with.

But now, at his own funeral and faced with John's still raw feelings, all he wanted was to call to him and give him his miracle. But doing so wouldn't have been kind. What if he did, and in a few months Mycroft had to tell him that Moriarty's web had, after all, destroyed Sherlock and John was forced to grieve for him all over again? No, better keep the miracle for a later date, when it would be permanent. If it even happened.

Sherlock would certainly endeavour to make it happen. After all, John never asked for anything, not for himself. He certainly deserved at least one little thing. The detective so hoped that he was allowed to give him this.

God, he was missing John already, and the doctor wasn't even out of his sight. How was he supposed to go back to working alone?        


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

John was with him through all the best-forgotten period that will later be dubbed 'Hiatus'. Not physically, of course. He was in London, safe from the danger and mayhem that was Sherlock's life (and maybe bored, but that was definitely better than John being – God forbid – captured if –  _when_ – Sherlock made a mistake, too).

But John never left the detective's mind palace. He was steadily there. Ready to comfort, prod, conduct unexpected light or offer sensible suggestions. Of all the people wandering in the halls – Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, Irene and so on – it was John that the sleuth summoned most often. John who made himself indispensable. But that was only to be expected. John was, after all, special.

And Sherlock had no other company. Not that Mycroft hadn't suggested it, bringing along some MI6 operative to share the legwork with; backup, as it were. But this wasn't work. This was a mission (make sure John ...and his makeshift family, of course, were safe), and as much as the detective knew that he'd make mistakes (inevitable) and pay for them (right, even) he couldn't risk other people with different priorities – their own survival; his, maybe...not John's – making mistakes too and perhaps jeopardizing his objective.

Which brought the sleuth here in Belgium, in the residence of Baron Maupertuis, associate of late Jim Moriarty, dealing mostly in human trafficking, searching for incriminating documents...and captured by the Baron's men red-handed.

They could have shot him down, but he'd pleaded to meet the Baron, promising that their boss would have liked that, and they'd agreed. It was a risky gamble, but one he had to take. The Baron was known to like exotic pets – he received them with a _live_ tiger lazily draped at his feet.

“What do we have here?” the crime boss drawled.

Sherlock interrupted the goon's explanation...by undressing and proudly spreading his wings. “Only one in the world. Wouldn't it be a pity to have me killed?” he said, teasing, concealing his fear.

“Ooooh...” Maupertuis breathed, “so it's a little thieving magpie who wandered in.”

(He wasn't. His quills were all black, not black and white. But still Sherlock had enough sense not to talk back now.)

“A pity, indeed. But you do realize you'll now be part of my collection. No flying away, my pretty little bird. Or...” The baron ended that sentence with a threatening gesture.

“Of course,” the sleuth agreed, shrugging. “Then again, my life might get easier now.” Let him think that he'd simply been searching for something to steal. That a pet's life would be welcomed, even. It would serve his purpose.

So Sherlock found himself in a cage, naked, and fed corn because the Baron found that humorous. But at least he wasn't dead. And he didn't have to share the cage with any other pets. He didn't like how the tiger looked at him. It seemed to wonder if Sherlock could be classified as food.

And he had a lot of time to think. Plan his next move. The Baron was a busy man, and as enthralled with his new toy as he was – which was quite enough – business came first. And for all that he was kept naked, the Baron hadn't made a move to abuse him sexually. (He was as firmly not gay as John – and Sherlock really didn't want to be reminded of John by this disgusting man). He'd forbidden to his men to use him, too.

All in all Sherlock's situation was quite better than it could have been. Without his wings, he wouldn't have had his bargaining chip and would in all probability be dead. He should be grateful to the scientists that created him, not mildly resentful as he used to be since his childhood (that had just started to change with John) for being 'ruined' by them.                

It took him ten days to escape (bringing the documents with him, of course – the Baron would see how he liked being behind bars himself soon) and it was absolutely shameful. Mycroft would scold him to no end for having revealed his secret, he was sure. But Sherlock Holmes was already dead, and the nameless pretty bird who fled from his cage would soon be nothing more than a legend among Belgian criminals. And anybody who hadn't actually seen him would think people talking about Sherlock were drunk or taking the piss anyway.

Now it was time to once again fold his wings and go onward. Only if he kept going forward he could possibly be allowed to make his way back to John and Baker Street and happiness someday. Until then, Sherlock soldiered on, and mind palace John smiled encouragingly. He could do this.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own not a thing.

Honestly, Sherlock didn't expect John's angry reaction at his return. He was doing what the doctor had asked for after all.

Yes, he had left him thinking that the sleuth was dead all the while.

Yes, he'd let him think that he wanted to die that day by not making use of his wings. Thank God anger made John choke on his words so he hadn't actually mentioned his wings explicitly or that would have been hard to explain to his fiancée and curious bystanders. What came out was more of a, “You didn't even try to...”

Yes, he'd let him think that John had pushed him into it. (...Wait, no. He hadn't. How had John gleaned as much from his actions? He had never meant for John to believe such a horrid thing.)

The main point was that Sherlock had reasons for his actions, very sound too, but that apparently didn't matter. John didn't want to see him, or talk to him, or have anything to do with him, and even if Mary promised that she'd make him see reason (Sherlock didn't want to owe John's presence in his life to his friend's attempt to please a woman – that never happened before) what if she couldn't?

If Sherlock had lost John forever – well, he would have lost John much more definitely if he hadn't acted like he had – so maybe he had to lose John anyway. (No, destiny didn't exist, now he was just being silly.) He wasn't worthy of his friendship, that was for  sure, so it all made sense in a warped way.

But it hurt, God how it hurt. Sherlock spent hours on the sofa, hugging himself with his wings, a perfect cocoon of misery, praying that John would come in and just exist in his immediate vicinity.   

It was lucky chance that he was dressed when Mary came instead, and then there was no time to wonder why a nurse would know a skip code at first glance. There was only John, who was very much not safe despite everything Sherlock had done, John who might die and die angry at him and maybe Sherlock had died too, and this was hell. It would make sense.

Especially because they were _burning_ John and this was what Moriarty had promised to do, but Moriarty was dead and this had all to be a horrific nightmare. And even if it was a nightmare, John had to be okay or Sherlock was going to make his nest in these flames until they consumed him, too. But luckily John was alive, so the sleuth had to leave him to his fiancée and paramedics and anyone John didn't hate now.

Though apparently saving people's life meant they were on speaking terms with you again. (The whole fall had been about saving John's life, why couldn't the man see that?) And even that they'd come on cases again. The world was finally starting to right itself once again. If he could have one cup of John's tea next he wouldn't be wanting for anything. ( _Lie._ He'll always want John in 221B. He'll always want these few perfect months of his life back. But he couldn't ask for the impossible. He didn't deserve it anyway.)

When he'd seen the chance, he'd exploited it unabashedly. Either John forgave him or he was left to die alone (if so...it'd be a pity to disappoint John once again). And John forgave him. Better yet, John laughed with him. So they went back to 221B and had tea and Sherlock stripped (back against the wall) so he could spread his wings and feel John's eyes on them. Nobody looked at them quite like John did, with awe and affection and conveying, “So beautiful,” even without a word.

And today, once again (without asking this time – almost as if not realizing himself what he was doing, entirely entranced), John had caressed his quills. Again and again and again. Probably simply to enjoy the solidity of them – their undeniable _existence_ – but it absolutely stole Sherlock's breath. He wanted it to go on forever. He needed this to stop _now,_ before he made a fool of himself, before the gentle touch triggered something that would disgust John.

When he moved away from John's light caress – maybe more sharply than necessary, but doing so needed quite a lot of effort on his part – John looked surprised and then immediately flustered. “I'm sorry...I didn't mean...I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No, I...I just...” Christ why was his mind empty of excuses? The dopamine had made him stupid. The truth, then. “They're...sensitive. In a good way.”

John flushed the most brilliant red. “Oh god. Sorry. I didn't know. I didn't want to -”

“I know you didn't. That's why I stopped you,” Sherlock replied. Why did this hurt? It wasn't supposed to hurt. As John never stopped pointing out, they weren't – like that. Maybe it was only the knowledge that John would surely keep a respectable distance from his wings now. He wouldn't get to casually brush  his quills against John anymore, would he? _Stupid_ , Sherlock.    


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Sherlock has always known that he is emptier than most people – his bones hollow in a vain attempt to let him fly – but he's never felt it. Not until now. _End of an era._ He's been forgiven – hell, he's been upgraded to best friend, which made absolutely no sense logically, (but oh, how unmeasurably glad and honoured he was) – but there would be no John-and-Sherlock anymore.

No more John dropping anything without notice to make sure Sherlock is safe on a case. (He hoped with all his soul that marriage won't mean no more cases for John outright – his best friend would always be an adrenaline addict after all). No more meeting John unless it was scheduled.

They were _supposed_ to drift apart now, as Mrs. Hudson pointed out. She was being kind in her own way, Sherlock presumed. Giving him warning. He could have done without it.  Why couldn't he be left with at least the delusion that John would still come by often, of course he would.

He couldn't do anything about that, but he could make sure that John's marriage would indeed be the happiest day of his best friend's life. Whether it involved folding serviettes compulsively or threatening guests. John's big day – the last day before they got inevitably separated – would go without a hitch. Sherlock would see to that.

And if he felt like someone had taken a blunt spoon and was scraping off all his internal organs away, well that was for him only to know. Maybe he would finally manage to fly after this. Entirely empty, Sherlock. Weightless. (With no John to remind him to eat anymore, that ideal would  be closer soon.) Then again, why would he want to fly? Who would care about it? (Probably Mycroft. His brother would find a way to make use of that. Mycroft always used him.)

The hardest part was pretending that all was fine. That he was happy. He tried to. Honestly. He tried so hard to be happy for John. But he had been replaced, soon-to-be useless, and it was simply impossible to be happy about that.

It wasn't fair. They'd needed each other, once. Now, Sherlock needed him still – harder than ever – but John had moved on. Why would he want the detective around in any capacity when there was perfect Mary?

Clever Mary, charming Mary, never-sulking Mary (certainly), Mary who knew how to save lives too (nurse), Mary who could – _would_ – give him the perfect family. The only thing John woulld miss were a white picket fence and a dog, and Sherlock couldn't even be the dog. He was, after all, a bird.

John had long since abandoned the nest that was 221B, leaving it empty and cold. Sherlock would swear that the heating didn't work anymore when John wasn't there – but of course that could be just him.

For the longest time, he didn't realize what it meant. Which could be a blessing in disguise – being ignorant of his own condition – and that Sherlock was praising _ignorance_ should have been hint enough that he wasn't himself anymore. (Though that wasn't true – he was what he was, as always.)

But it's only during the actual marriage, worse, at the following lunch – much too late to do anything about it (not that Sherlock could have done anything about it anyway), when he explained to a load of strangers how much he loved John Watson, that it dawned on him how true that was – and not in a best friend way.

Best friends don't burn with such a devouring passion, he's pretty sure, despite being new to this whole friendship lark (the reason he's misinterpreted things for so long). No, he'd fallen prey to the most basic, humiliating human error, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Worse, there was nothing he would do if he _could_. Loving John Watson had become integral to his very being – far too long ago, Sherlock could see it now – and no matter how much it hurt him, the only thing Sherlock could do was accept that hard fact. (He'd promised Mycroft that he wouldn't get involved when he was already fallen to hell. Mycroft would sneer _so much._ )

At least it explained why he'd had such a hard time with the waltz or why it retained such sad undertones, no matter what he did. It wasn't a song of love found, but of love lost. (He had never had a chance to begin with. He needed to remember that.)

Once again, he was tempted to use his wings to hug hilself, but the tuxedo wouldn't allow it. He hated the thing. He hated this place. And not even solving a murder could make the day better. Sholto had lost contact with John. John never mentioned him (though, apparently, to Mary he did). It was like looking into a mirror, and finding the man wishing for death was not a surprise. It was definitely the wrong occasion – they couldn't do that to John – but Sherlock found himself wondering how long Sholto would last. How long he himself would last without John. (No, no, no, don't think like that – must NOT sadden John, ever.)

His role in John's life had ended with that waltz though. (Why did Mary have to be pregnant? Dad John will need to take care of himself for his family's sake – no more danger for him). The best thing for everyone was for Sherlock to quietly slip away from John's life.

He could bring his broken self to the sofa and hug Billy. The skull at least wouldn't pick anyone else over Sherlock. It wouldn't leave him. The detective knew that he should have stuck to the dead. Look at the mess he was in now. He was a wreck. And he shouldn't be. It made no sense. Why did it hurt so much losing something he's never had in the first place?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own not a thing.

Life after John's marriage was a bleak, horrible thing. Sherlock even had cases to distract himself with, but suddenly 'married to his work' sounded like a mocking. It had been true, once. There was a time – he reminded himself – when the Work on its own had made him happy – more happy than most marriages made other people, even.

Now he couldn't help it. He missed John. Of course, John was on his sex holiday, busy shagging Mary in exotic locations. He had no time to think of Sherlock. (Hacking the blog was a petty act of revenge, he knew).  

But when even the sex holiday ended, there was still no word for him. Not one friendly, “Remember to eat today.” Or, “Mary's so perfect. I just have to tell it to someone.” It'd break his heart, but it'd be something. Something Sherlock was hungry for.

He was at his lowest. Once he burst in tears at the damn radio. He'd turned it on for the white noise it provided (no TV, he couldn't watch TV without John) and Dusty Springfield was singing, “You don't have to say you love me – Just be close at hand,” and it was too much.

One day later, he was off searching for drugs (because it would offer Magnussen an easily exploitable pressure point, of course).

Thank God for Janine. Having to act saved him from curling up and waiting to die. (Though, what the hell was Sherl? He didn't like it one bit.) Of course, Janine was a bit surprised from Sherlock's reluctance to get naked, but he'd mentioned something about detection being a dangerous work and many scars – which wasn't even wrong – and as long as she was satisfied somehow (no sex – women really weren't his area) she didn't complain or even tried to reassure him.

He would never had done anything else. He wasn't about to give Magnussen his true secrets. There was no doubt that Janine would be made to talk about him. Her boss would have seen him as a way to get to Mycroft. (His brother wasn't exposed to blackmail. He cared for nothing and no one.)

It was mere chance that finally sent adrenaline-addicted John back into his path. (Well, he might have chosen a drug den near John's new home since he didn't have the heart to – he couldn't – go to John himself. He wasn't supposed to bother the newlyweds.)

For a moment, he thought it was all a beautiful, beautiful trip (might need more of this particular concoction). But John was angry and disappointed and _true_. And jealous, why was he jealous? No, maybe only baffled. If he'd found _David_ inside Sherlock's bedroom he wouldn't have probably batted an eyelid. Anyway, he agreed to being involved in cases once again. If he went around spraining people for the heck of it his best friend definitely needed it. Lucky Sherlock.

The sleuth honestly hadn't expected what happened. He was off his game, made stupid by confusing feelings (awful things, these), willful blindness (she had to be somewhat good – she made John _happy_ ) and maybe a depth of desperate recklessness (what could Mary _do_ to him worse than she had already done?).

Mycroft would be so annoyed, having to bribe and/or threaten his doctors to keep his secret. “You should know better than get shot, Sherlock.” The detective could imagine that perfectly. Which he would normally agree with, but there were consequences to getting shot (hopefully not only by Mary Watson).

John was back in 221B. If it would ensure it in a permanent fashion, Sherlock would have no qualms over arranging to be shot monthly. He'd have to check if being stabbed  worked as well, and exactly how serious the wound needed to be to ensure John's continued presence in Baker Street. Serious enough, he suspected. Well, he could endure it. As long as John stayed.  And he had to do all this covertly. He was almost sure that his doctor would deem that kind of manipulation more than a little not good.

In the end, he had no time to implement this plan. Because Magnussen was threatening John and his family (the baby had to be safe – hence, Mary had to be safe too, whatever Sherlock thought of her). And once again, the sleuth had misjudged the situation ( _stupid stupid STUPID_ ). No matter. John would be safe. And he...he'd face whatever he had to. (He didn't want to leave. Not _again_. Why didn't they just mercifully shoot him down?)                                   

He had a couple of minutes with John. (A life – he'd wanted his whole life to be spent by his...friend's side). He said things his friend wouldn't – _shouldn't –_ understand. “Sherlock is a girl's name”. Or, “Sherlock _Watson_. That's perfect. That's as things should be.”

And when he shook his hand, he covertly passed John one black quill. He wouldn't be leaving John. Not entirely.

“Sherlock...What?” the doctor queried, surprised.

“It fell on his own,” he replied smoothly. _Lie._ Plucking it out hurt, but much, much less than any of the rest he went through. “You liked my wings. I thought...rather than binning it...” He was painfully awkward. What if John didn't want it? Stupid, Sherlock.

“Thank you. It's so beautiful. But are you sure you're fine? If you're losing them...” Worried, caring John. Sherlock hadn't meant to make him worry. He couldn't do anything right.

“It was the one, John. I'm fine, I promise,” he assured.

“If you say so...” John conceded, not entirely convinced.

Sherlock had to leave on his own before his minders made him. It was the most difficult thing he'd ever done. No hope of coming back to sustain him. “See that he's happy,” he'd begged Mycroft earlier. The only thing Sherlock would ever ask for in his life.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own not a thing. I realize I am repetitive in this, but Sherlock’s mind can get into a loop sometimes.

Nobody had calculated the Moriarty variable into their plans. (Sherlock should have seen through him if his death was faked, shouldn’t he? Once again,  _stupid_ .) But the criminal mastermind wouldn’t have reacted well to the loss of his favourite plaything, everyone knew that.

So, to stop Jim Moriarty from escalating in his chaos bringing, Sherlock’s exile had been…postponed. (Probably just postponed. He shouldn’t delude himself.) Throwing him as a victim to Jim’s mad games, rather than Putin’s men. It made no difference for the men who had decreed his fate.

It should have made a whole world of difference to him, because he was still in England. He only had to ask for it, and he was sure that he could have John once again by his side in this. Only he didn’t want to.

Of course he wanted John, forever; it was etched in his very cells. But Moriarty had an ugly habit of putting John Watson in the crosshairs, and that was simply not acceptable.

Sherlock would keep his…friend out of the investigation entirely (simply out of the loop wasn’t enough – look what happened last time). Stage a fight with him, if need be. But he overwhelmingly needed John safe. It should have worked. He’d go without John, painful as that was, but at least he’d be untouched from the danger Sherlock breathed. 

Once again, he’d forgotten the most obvious things. Because when Sherlock had followed Jim’s polite invitation all the way to Scotland, he’d gotten a show that was a mismatch of mythology, Grimm tales and Poe…with John at the centre of it all. 

There was a labyrinth – an actual, bloody labyrinth – and in the midst of it, a tower whose last storey had glass walls – just so he’d be allowed to see what was inside. And that was John Hamish Watson, chained to the floor, with a bloody gigantic, gleaming, utterly sharp sickle oscillating closer and closer to his bound friend. 

A hoarse, horrified, “How?” left his mouth unbidden. 

“Because he trusts me still, and Jimmikins wanted me to,” Mary said with a smirk, appearing from inside the labyrinth. “Though I’d get moving, Sherlock. Clock’s ticking.” 

He’d thought Mary loved John. (Well, maybe she liked him – she just loved Jim more.) But as Mary said, there was no time to ponder that – or his idiocy. 

He ran inside the trap – of course it was a trap, obviously Jim had no intention to let him reach John at all, much less exit this alive – blinded by fear. He should have been able to solve it (labyrinths were easy to work out) but remotely controlled walls kept shifting around him, blocking his path. Hidden blades sprang out, trying to cripple him or tear him apart, but only managing to graze him (multiple times) due to his reflexes and sheer, blind luck on his part. 

He needed to get to John – he _needed to_ – he never would. Unless… The labyrinth had no ceiling (he needed to be allowed to check John’s status – to be distracted by it). If he could just fly up to John…But he couldn’t fly. His wings were useless decorations. 

But he hadn’t tried – not since these barely remembered days when the lead scientists kept pushing him into what he wasn’t ready for. His wings were bigger now, looked stronger – and above all, he needed to get to John in time. A few meters. Come on. It didn’t matter if he fell again – he’d at least be closer to his target. Gain time.

He furiously shed his clothes, and started flapping nervously his black wings. Up. Up. _Up._ To John. Now! Maybe it was the strength of desperation, but finally Sherlock was flying. Not gracefully, of course, he must have looked like a ridiculous, overgrown, awkward baby crow at his first flight, but he was nearing the tower more and more. In the end, he crashed inside it in a shower of sharp glass fragments. The sleuth stumbled in a clumsy landing. 

“Sherlock!” John called, shocked by his unexpected entrance. 

“I’ve got it,” the detective assured. Thank God that he had stored a set of picklocks in the inseam of his trousers. He started to work on John’s chains, furiously quick. It might still not be quick enough – the sickle was frighteningly close now – but at least while he worked the blade would have to go through him first. That was good. 

Blogger finally free, they rolled away together with no time to spare at all. The blade cut away the endings of some of Sherlock’s longer quills, and he winced. 

A hidden speaker – somewhere above them – startled them booming, “Tut, tut, tut, Sherlock. You cheated, you know. It was beautiful, I’ll give you that, my swan prince. But still, people who don’t play by the rules get punished.” _Moriarty._

Sherlock didn’t stay to hear anymore. He hugged John, told him to hold on and flew away by the same way he’d come, hoping for the best. No sense being sitting ducks or facing a building Moriarty had obviously rigged in many ways. 

“I thought you couldn’t fly!” John blurted out, his grip almost painfully strong.

“I thought so too!” Sherlock replied, and laughed, high on adrenaline and the sensation of flying, while trying to land them outside the labyrinth. Not even the tower exploding behind them could scare him. They landed unsteadily, amidst Mary’s bullets. 

“She’s toying with us,” the detective pointed out. If she wanted them death, they would be. 

“Exactly,” John agreed. “All you want is to bloody play,” he yelled then, “and we can’t play anymore if you kill us. Are you so anxious to get bored?” 

Mary laughed. Jim, finally, appeared and exclaimed, “Oh, fine! Off you go! But you still cheated!” Two quick bullets hit Sherlock where his wings met the shoulders. 

“You’ve just burned your second chance, Mary,” John said coldly. “I’ll be there for the baby -”

“Oh, don’t bother, it’s mine,” Jim chimed in gleefully. “Now shoo, before I change idea.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine.

Sherlock had been honestly surprised that John had decided to ditch Mary. “It wasn’t just because she worked with Moriarty or got you in danger. You decided to abandon her the moment when – because – she shot me. Again. Why would you? For me?” he’d queried, looking baffled.

“I wouldn’t have taken her back the last time in the first place if you hadn’t twisted the facts in her favour, as I’m suspecting now. Even if I can’t fathom why you would do so. Now I was there – and she did shoot the most important person in my life,” John explained with a shrug.

“I thought _she_ was the most important person in your life,” Sherlock replied, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

“I thought so too…before she shot you the first time. Then it was clear where my loyalties laid. Now I was staying with her just for the baby, and that, well…” the doctor admitted, making a vague, dejected gesture, “Do you think Moriarty was telling the truth?”

“I don’t think he’d want to take care of a child not his, and if he wanted to hurt her, he’d let you know it’s your baby he’s tormenting to hurt you,” the sleuth rumbled. He didn’t add, “and me through your pain,”but that would exactly be Jim’s style.

“Right. Of course,” John agreed weakly. “You know, actually, we’d rather have to thank him though. I mean, between you and Mary, this time he took Mary out of my life. I was frankly terrified it would be the opposite, once again. Instead, we’re still together.”

“Of course we are,” the detective replied, as if any other outcome was simply unconceivable.

“Forever?” John queried, with a sort of hesitant hope.

“If you want,” was the soft reply.

“Oh, I do,” the doctor said vibrantly. “I very much do. I love you.” He bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to let it slip. It had just…happened. With the opinion Sherlock had about sentiment, he was in for a lecture. At the very least.

Instead, the detective only countered, “I know.”

“Do you?” John asked quietly. Had he been so obvious? And why hadn’t Sherlock mentioned it, or reacted in anyway till now? …Did he really know?

“I’m your best friend. Of course you love me. A bit,” the detective huffed.

John should have retreated under the cover so gently offered to him, not upsetting the status quo, but that was suddenly inacceptable. Impossible. “Not a bit. A lot. More than a lot. You’re not just my best friend – though you’re still that, obviously. You’re my beloved. I’m…well, I suppose the only word for it if I mean to be honest is I’m in love with you, Sherlock,” he admitted hoarsely. It took all his bravery.

Thank God that after having asked him to be his best man John had a precedent to comfort himself with, otherwise he’d be panicking wildly, because his declaration had apparently broken Sherlock once again, making the sleuth go catatonic. Last time, the eventual reaction had been positive – so John reminded himself firmly to stop himself from assuming the worst when faced with the detective’s vacant stare. He’d just surprised the man. It happened sometimes. (Only to John, to be completely honest.) 

When Sherlock had figured out the sudden shift in his universe, seven and half eternal minutes later, he didn’t just react positively. He dived in for an ardent kiss. (John should have been brave earlier. Much earlier. Years ago.)

Everything changed, and not much at the same time. They still went on cases, viciously protecting each other. John still had to cajole Sherlock into eating semi-regularly. The detective kept invading the kitchen with questionable experiments involving various body parts, making the doctor fear contamination of their food. But now, “You’re amazing,” was often followed by a kiss, the sleuth could be bribed into eating by promising sex, and the table would at times be cleared from experiments for reasons other than eating on it.

John had caught on quickly on the wings’ sensitivity, and he never failed to involve them into foreplay, making them flail wildly. Sherlock hugged them both with his pinions while they cuddled on the sofa, and both of them absolutely adored the sensation. John made a point to tell the sleuth how much he loved him everyday. Sherlock was composing another violin piece – their song – which was not at all melancholic at heart like the wedding waltz had been but soared to heaven in pure happiness.

If Christmas saw Sherlock hiding how miserable he was, Easter saw him and John back at the sleuth’s parents’ house, both unable to stop grinning. Sherlock’s parents were beyond glad that their boy had finally found his soulmate, as they insisted to call John, to the doctor’s mild embarrassment.

The sleuth was giddy and insisted that he had something to show to everyone so if they could come out before lunch…His family obviously complied, in varied stages of curiosity and concern (mainly from Mycroft, who had a doubtful look on his face).

When Sherlock stripped his upper body, freeing his wings and flapping them experimentally, Mummy smiled widely. She had no idea what was coming, but her baby was the most beautiful in the world.

“I would never have discovered that I could do this – I would have never been able to do so – if not for John, so all credit goes to him,” the sleuth started by saying. And afterwards he took to the air, flying smoothly. He still failed when he tried to draw a heart in the air – he wasn’t that advanced in his flying technique (lack of exercise, surely), he’d overestimated himself.

Getting back, he fully expected Mycroft’s mocking, but instead he found everyone looking at him with breathless love. When he landed, he was welcomed by a round of loud clapping. Sherlock blushed in embarrassed pleasure.

“That’s great, love,” dad remarked.

“So beautiful. I can’t believe you’re indeed flying, Lockie,” mummy commented, sparks in her eyes.

“I do hope you’re not making use of that while chasing criminals, or keeping your secret would become impossible,” his brother warned him. God, Mycroft could already feel a headache forming for the need to manage this new Sherlock.

The sleuth couldn’t reply to anyone right away because John had thought best to reward him for the show with a kiss. As soon as his mouth was free, he bit back, “Whatever you think of me, I’m not entirely an idiot, Mycroft. Of course I’m going to fly only here at home.” Here the neighbours weren’t at all that near, and there was almost no chance to be noticed.

“Then we will see you a lot more often, I hope,” dad said warmly.

“I do love to watch you fly. It’s magnificent,” John added, smiling widely.

“And I do love to fly, so yes, we’ll be probably coming round more often – compatibly with our cases, obviously,” Sherlock promised. He needed to fly more often to perfection his technique if he wanted to be able to write “I ♥ John” in the air for his lover’s birthday in July. And he quite liked that project. John was a romantic – he’d certainly appreciate it.And Sherlock wanted to make him happy more than anything. As always.


End file.
